I Named You Kendi, Meaning 'The Loved One'

When I last lived in Thailand, I was living the most beautiful life, and I felt so in alignment with my values, passions, and self. I loved meeting all our wellness guests, leading meditations, and working alongside a truly wonderful team and community of people.

I once lived in a house called Little Thai Garden around the corner from where I used to work, and as Christmas approached, I received a message from a friend asking if I would like a kitten—a very, very sick kitten, only a couple of weeks old.

She said, “I don’t know how long you’re staying, but I know you love animals and…” She couldn’t get another word in before I said, “Yes! Bring whatever creature it may be!”

A tiny kitten. She was found in the dust and dirt, trying to hide by a restaurant on the side of the road. No sign of her mama or siblings, and on the brink of death. She was so little, so fragile, and every four hours, like clockwork, I hand-fed her, forced medicine down her throat, and held her tiny head in my palm as I cleaned out her nose and ears. They were clogged black with dirt. I didn’t sleep, because I had to make sure I could still hear her husky breathing—her chest infection was terrible.

I was scared to open the door and let her outside, but after a few weeks, as she healed, I realized she loved the outdoors. And this was Thailand—she was inevitably born with an adventurous spirit. I bargained with her and got her a pink butterfly collar with a faint bell so I’d always know where she was. Funnily enough, whenever I returned home, it wasn’t even a minute before I heard her coming. I never had to wait for her—she was the one waiting for me.

I named her Kendi, meaning the loved one. And she was so, so loved. She made me laugh. She gave me so much affection, attention, and care. Sometimes, I wondered if she was a little human.

She slept in my bed every night, curled up against me, and knew my routine and work schedule to a T. Ever since I got her, though, I would rush back to her—no matter who I was with, they all knew I would say, I have to get back to Kendi. Even though I knew she was fine. Independent. Healthy now. Strong. She was still my baby, and anywhere else always felt like I was on my way back to her.

When it came time for me to leave, and news of COVID began to feel more real, more dire, I had to go back to Australia. And my heart broke, because I had to leave her. This was always an inevitability, but I had become a professional at ignoring it.

I wasn’t sad because I was worried for her, necessarily—I knew I had found her a wonderful home. Just down the road from where I lived, in the neighborhood and streets she knew. With other well-fed, well-loved cats. With people I knew cared for animals.

I was sad because I loved her so much and was watching her grow up, and I wanted to keep seeing her grow forever. I loved her so much, and selfishly, I believed nobody would love her as much as I did. They didn’t see the tiny, sick kitten I did every time I looked at her.

I was so proud of her. Proud of how much she was doing—even if they were just normal cat things. I was amazed every time I saw her climb a tree, or how quickly she finished her food. I saw her fall in love with life, with the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind. And I loved the way she would look at me when there was a scary noise, and I would always quietly whisper, “It’s okay, Kendi. I’m here.”

Life changed back in Australia. Life went on, moved forward. Time flew by and stood still all at once. I thought about Kendi all the time, told people about her, prayed for her. Sometimes, I thought I could feel her with me. I had to surrender to the uncertainty of not knowing how she was or where she was sometimes.

Nearly four years later, I find myself back in Thailand. It’s familiar, but it’s different. I met up with someone close to me, someone I used to work with—the one who had carried Kendi in her arms as a kitten, telling her to look up at the palm trees, look here, look there. She was so small, and the world felt so big.

I wondered if she knew anything, but before I could even say Kendi’s name, in a moment between our conversation, she reached her arms across the table and held my hands. She said it softly and quickly.

Kendi had passed away. Just recently.

Kendi got sick, and when they took her to the vet, there was nothing they could do.

She said that when she returned to the neighborhood where Kendi’s home was—where our home was—a group of Thai locals who lived in the area and knew her were huddled together, crying.

Tears have been flowing like rivers down my cheeks all afternoon. I feel dizzy. My heart hurts because I never got to say goodbye. I never got to go down that road and maybe spot her, just watch her, big and grown, wandering around.

I feel a deep sense of grief for a beautiful creature who, while she lived a good life, lived for such a short time. And lived for some years while I was away, doing other things. I feel incredibly guilty for loving her so deeply and then for leaving. I feel guilty for not coming to find her again sooner and asking for forgiveness.

But I have solace. Solace in knowing she was loved. That she was fed. That she didn’t wander away to another area. The streets there were fairly quiet and peaceful. I have solace that when they saw something was wrong, someone took her in to be looked at. I have solace that she didn’t die alone, but in the care of people who loved other sweet creatures, too. That she was with people who showed her the world is not always a cruel and scary place. And that in her last moments, she felt cared for.

As I’ve cried for Kendi, I have found myself crying for Ziva.

When Ziva died, I held her head in my lap and traced the contours of her nose and face so I wouldn’t forget. I told her that she saved my life, because she did. I said sorry for the times I yelled and was impatient.

When I lived in Thailand and held Kendi in my arms—so soft and delicate—I would giggle, thinking of what Ziva would do if she could see me now. She never knew a cat in her life, and because she was so big, she would come on a little too strong whenever she approached one. I remember when I returned home after that chapter in Thailand, Ziva sniffed my bags inside and out. I had whispered to her, “Is that Kendi? Do you smell Kendi?”

These two creatures—I poured so much of my love into them. And now, I feel so lonely. So human, so silly, so attached to mourning deeply rather than accepting that this is life. That they lived their purpose, their time on earth as it was meant for them. That this is what happens.

Things live. We exist. And we die.

You don’t always get to say goodbye. You don’t always get the closure you expect.

I will never fully heal from these losses. I will always feel a little lonely. I will see them in new creatures, in animals I will love, rescue, and hold close.

Dear Ziva, you know what it is like to leave earthside too soon—two days short of your fifth birthday.

Please, look out for Kendi.

She’s a little ginger and white kitten—or maybe not so little anymore. Maybe she’s grown and in her prime, but she didn’t feel so good before she passed.

She was a few months away from four years old.

I know you’re big, and cats used to hide from you. But Kendi is brave, playful. You may just meet your match in feline form when you look into her curious, bright green eyes.

Love on her. Go on all the adventures you both still dreamed of. Tell her that I loved her. Tell her I came back to see her. Tell her I didn’t forget. Tell her I thought of her all this time.

Love always, A

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